Philumene to Aristides
I, even I, shall turn aside thy death;
My lips shall taste the black and bitter wine
Faint ghosts in Hades press even now for thine,
And I shall mix with the earth, but thou go whole
Since for thy soul I render up my soul.
Shall not I thank the gods and sing, being glad
That in their eyes my prayer such favour had?
For thou shalt live, triumphant over death! . . .
The sharp, last agony, the catch in the breath,
The ache of the starting eyes, the red, blind night,
The fruitless search of hands that grasp at light.
And, worst of all, the horror of what may be,
Thou shalt not know, but I, but I, for thee.
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